Remy bird, a month later

So, I clearly haven't written too much since little Remy bird has come to us. I've written a thousand little essays in my head while I sit at the foot of the bed at 2 a.m. and nurse. I've even actually typed out blog posts that I never posted, relating all the details of his beloved birth and the darling things he does every hour. I haven't not posted for lack of time, or motivation, or even because I've been stuck in a fog of new motherhood. I think I haven't posted because I fear the inability of language to do any justice of expression to the way I feel when I wake up in the morning and see a tiny, flawless body squirming next to me. I am about to defend a thesis, which is a collection of my own poetry, in a month or two, and so the abilities, and perhaps more appropriate, the inabilities of language have been ripe on the brain. I am afraid that I will ruin this magic time if I try to express it in words, especially if I, and I inevitably will, use words like 'cute' and 'perfect'. Those words are fine, I employ them often, but they are not working to attempt to describe what it is to have a tiny human being who makes sighing noises in his sleep, and opens and closes his eyes as slowly as a butterfly, breathing next to you all the time.

What I will say about the whole thing right now, is this: it is incredible to me that people have been having kids (and I don't just mean physically having them, but that older people have been helping to raise younger people) for millions of years. It is so much work, and they seem so fragile. It is the work of so many repetitious hours, it is the work of many unaddressed acts of service, it is the work of so much quiet joy that perhaps is never expressed to anyone. Yet, even more amazing to me than any of this, is the way that one person's face, expressions, movements, voice, become your entire world, and yet, that is entirely different for everyone. It always has been, and it always will be. That face may be a spouse, a niece or nephew, a son or daughter, brother or sister, a friend, and in most cases, it is a collaboration of all of them. It seems that Remy's face, with his big, round eyes, and upturned Christensen nose, is the most familiar, and still exhilarating little thing I've ever known. I also think about how me and Carl will become like the comfort of coming home from a foreign country to Remy. I wonder if my body, my voice, the way I move through the house are already comfortable to him. He seems pretty content with life here. All this being said, I do plan to write more on here about him, and about other things, because, after all, the ever-surprising truth that I am still who I am, even as a mother, continues to be the case.